I interrupted him with a stern look.
At fourteen, I had mastered the art of glaring, courtesy of my father. Whenever he was angry, he didn't have to say or do anything. Instead, he would just frown and stared fiercely. That look alone scared the s**t out of people and got things done. Realizing what a useful strategy it was, I quickly adopted it and committed it to my memory.
Mike laughed and said, "Your constipated face?" A pathetic attempt to frighten me. With his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and a smug look on his face, he said, "I really think you look cute."
Without wasting a second, I jumped forward, hoping to catch him off guard, but damn our alpha gene! He didn't even have to move an inch to grab my leg, which was struggling to hit him where the sun didn't shine.
Now that
